The Final Murder (34 page)

have Grandiosa. Is it hard to make pizza? D’you think I could get the recipe for the wife?’

He grabbed the last piece as Adam started to clear the table.

‘Would you rather have a beer?’ Johanne asked in desperation, looking at the cognac bottle on the windowsill. ‘If you’re going to eat more, that is. Doesn’t it, well… go better?’

‘Cognac goes with most things,’ Sigmund said happily, and

launched into the last piece of pizza. ‘It’s bloody nice to be here.

Thanks for asking.’

‘You’re welcome,’ Johanne said flatly. ‘Are you still hungry?’

‘After this, I could only be hungry for life,’ grinned the guest, rinsing down the pizza with the rest of the cognac.

“Dear God,’muttered Johanne, and

went to the bathroom.

Sigmund was right, the sleep had done her

the world of good

The bags under her eyes were no longer so dark, even

though they were more obvious than Johanne liked in the sharp light by the mirror. This morning she had taken the time to have a proper bath, wash her hair, cut and varnish her nails. Put on make-up.

When she finally felt ready to collect Ragnhild, she had lain down and slept for another hour and a half. Her mother had demanded to look after her grandchild again at the weekend. Johanne had shaken her head, but her mother’s smile showed that she wasn’t going to yield.

‘What is it about mothers?’ Johanne asked herself. ‘Will I be like that too? Will I be just as hopeless, project my feelings on my daughters and irritate them, be equally good at reading their needs?

She’s the only person I can give my baby to without feeling worried or ashamed. She makes me feel like a child again. That’s what I need, I need to have no responsibility, no demands, every now and then. I don’t want to be like her. I need her. What is it about mothers?’

She let the cold water run over her hands for a long, long time.

More than anything, she wanted to go to bed. It was as if the previous night’s long sleep had reminded her body that it was possible to sleep and now it was screaming for more. But it was only

nine o’clock. She dried her hands thoroughly, put her glasses on and reluctantly went back to the kitchen.

‘… Or what d’you reckon, Johanne?’

Sigmund’s moon face smiled expectantly at her.

‘About what?’ she asked, trying to muster a smile.

‘I was saying that surely it must be easier to make a profile of the killer now. If we take all your theories seriously, I mean.’

‘All my theories? I don’t have many theories.’

‘Don’t be a pedant,’ Adam said. ‘Sigmund’s right, isn’t he?’

Johanne picked up a bottle of mineral water and drank. Then

she screwed the lid back on, thought about it, smiled fleetingly and said:

‘We’ve certainly got a lot more to go on than before. I agree.’

‘Come on then!’

Sigmund pushed a pen and some paper in her direction. His

eyes were bright, like an excited child. Johanne stared at the sheets of paper in irritation.

‘Fiona Helle’s the problem,’ she said slowly.

‘Why?’ asked Adam. ‘Is she not the only one who’s not a problem?

We’ve got a murderer, a confession, and a perfect motive that underpins the murderer’s confession.’

‘Exactly,’ Johanne agreed, and sat down on the empty bar stool.

‘And for that reason she doesn’t fit in.’

She took three pieces of paper and laid them side by side on the worktop. She wrote FH in felt pen on the first page, and pushed it to one side. Then she took the second and wrote VH in big letters and left it in front of her. She sat biting the pen for a while before she scribbled VK on the last piece of paper and put it in line with the others.

‘Three murders. Two unsolved.’

She was talking to herself. Biting the pen. Thinking. The men were quiet. Suddenly she wrote Tuesday 20 January, Friday 6

February and Thursday 19 February under the initials.

‘Different days,’ she murmured. ‘No pattern to the intervals.’

Adam’s mouth moved as he calculated the days.

‘Seventeen days between the first and second murders,’ he

said. ‘And thirteen between the second and third. Thirty between the first and the last.’

‘At least it’s a round figure,’ Sigmund tried.

Johanne moved the FH sheet to one side. Then pulled it back.

‘Something’s not right,’ she said. ‘There’s something that just doesn’t fit.’

‘Can’t we try to base ourselves on the assumption that someone is behind it all?’ Adam suggested impatiently, and pushed the sheet over. ‘Imagine that Mats Bohus has been influenced by

someone. The same person who’s manipulated someone into

killing Vibeke Heinerback and Vegard Krogh. Let’s …’

Johanne wrinkled her nose.

‘But that’s completely mad,’ she said. ‘I don’t understand …’

‘Let’s just try,’ Adam insisted. ‘What does that conjure up?

What sort of person could …’

‘It has to be someone with an incredible insight into the human psyche,’ she started. Again, she seemed to be talking to herself. ‘A psychiatrist or a psychologist. Maybe an experienced policeman. A mad priest? No

Her fingers drummed on the sheet with Fiona Helle’s initials.

She bit her lip. Blinked and straightened her glasses.

‘I’m afraid I just can’t,’ she said in a whisper. ‘I can’t see what the connection is. Not unless… what if…’

She stood up abruptly. A file of notes lay on the shelf by the TV. She flicked eagerly through it as she came back across the floor and found the photo of Fiona Helle. When she sat back

down, she put the picture directly above the sheet of paper with the victim’s initials on it.

‘This case is actually completely clear-cut,’ she said. ‘Fiona Helle let down her son. She can hardly be blamed for what happened in 1978, when Mats was born and her mother made a

decision that would affect the fate of three generations. But I’m sure that I’m not the only one who has some kind of understanding for Mats Bohus’ extreme reaction to what happened. You can

think what you like about some people’s strange desire to discover their biological origins, but…’

Her eyes did not leave the photograph. Johanne took off her

glasses, picked up the photo and studied it.

‘It’s all about dreams and great expectations,’ she said in a quiet voice. ‘Often, at least. When things go wrong and life is difficult, it must be tempting to think that there’s something else out there, your true self, your real life. A kind of comfort. A dream that can sometimes become an obsession. Mats Bohus has had a harder life than most. His mother’s final and absolute rejection must have been … crushing. This time she had everything to offer, but nothing to give. Mats had a motive for killing her. He killed her.’

Deep in thought, she put the photo on top of the sheet of paper and kept them together with a paper clip. She sat in silence as if the others were no longer there and stared at the photograph of the beautiful TV star with fascinating eyes, a straight nose and provocative, sensual mouth.

Sigmund stole a look at the bottle by the window. Adam

nodded.

‘What if,’ Johanne began again; they could hear the enthusiasm in her voice. ‘What if we assume that it’s not three cases in a series?’

‘Sorry?’

‘Huh?’ uttered Sigmund and filled his glass.

‘We should perhaps …’ Adam started.

‘Wait,’ Johanne said sharply.

She placed the sheets in a triangle, with her hand over Fiona Helle’s face.

‘This case has been solved,’ she said. ‘A murder. An investigation.

A suspect. The suspect has a motive. He confesses. The

confession is confirmed by other facts in the case. Case closed.’

‘I have no idea where you’re going,’ Adam admitted. ‘Are we

back to square one? Do you think it’s just coincidence and that we’re talking about three unconnected—’

‘But what about the symbolism?’ Sigmund interjected. ‘What

about the lecture you heard thirteen years ago that…’

‘Hang on a minute! Wait!’

Johanne stood up. She walked in circles around the floor. Every now and then she stopped by the window. Looked aimlessly out at the street, as if she had no expectation of seeing anyone there.

‘It’s the tongue,’ she said. ‘The severed tongue is the key. The starting point.’

She turned towards the two men. Two bright circles were growing on her cheeks, touching her glasses, which were steamed up.

Adam and Sigmund sat quite still, in deep concentration, as if they were spectators about to watch a dangerous stunt.

‘We had it already on day one,’ Johanne said, excited. ‘The very first day, when Fiona was found with her tongue cut off and all wrapped up. It was there. We said that it was so banal. Such simple, obvious symbolism that it could almost have been taken from a cheap book about Red Indians. You said it yourself, Adam, just the other day … You said that there must be countless examples of bodies with dismembered tongues throughout history. You

were right. You’re absolutely right. Fiona Helle’s murder had nothing to do with the lecture I heard on that hot summer’s day in an auditorium in Quantico. It’s so …’

She put her hands to her face and swayed slightly from side to side.

‘… clear,’ she said, half stifled, ‘so obvious. Jesus.’

Adam stared at her, bewildered.

‘Don’t touch me,’ Johanne warned. ‘Let me go on.’

Sigmund didn’t drink. He was staring, his moist pink lips

slightly open. His eyes moved from Johanne to Adam and back.

Jack, the King of America, had come in from the sitting room.

Even the dog stood stock-still, with his mouth shut and a twitching nose.

‘These three cases,’ Johanne finally said and dropped her

hands, ‘… have a number of common features. But rather than looking for more, perhaps we should ask ourselves, what are the differences? W7hat makes them different from each other? What makes the Fiona Helle case so different from the others?’

Adam hadn’t taken his eyes off her since she started to wander round the room. Only now did he dare reach out for the bottle of water. His hands were shaking slightly as he unscrewed the top.

‘It’s been solved,’ he quipped.

‘Exactly!’

Johanne pointed at him with both hands.

‘Exactly! It’s been solved/’

Jack wagged his tail and it hit her legs when he came close. She stood on his paw by accident as she hurried back to the worktop.

The dog howled.

‘You found the answer in the Fiona Helle case,’ she said, picking up the photograph and paying no-attention to the dog. ‘You struggled, fumbled around and were lost for a while. But the answer was there. The post-mortem revealed details that led back to an old, sad story, which in turn led to Mats Bohus. To the murderer. Motive and opportunity. Everything was there, Adam. And it normally is.

Murders are usually solved in this country.’

Sigmund grabbed his glass and took a drink.

‘Hallo, I’m here too,’ he complained.

‘But now take the other two cases,’ Johanne continued, and slid the photograph down to the end of the worktop, before grasping the other two sheets with the big letters VH and VK on. ‘Have you ever, in all your working life, come across cases so devoid of suspects? So chaotic and full of false leads and distractions? Trond Arnesen…’

She spat the name out over the worktop.

‘A boy. He certainly had things to hide, just like everyone else.

But he obviously didn’t kill her. His alibi is watertight, even with a one-and-a-half-hour interlude for a lovers’ tryst.’

‘Rudolf Fjord is a name that still interests me,’ objected

Sigmund.

‘Rudolf Fjord,’ she sighed. ‘God, I’m sure he’s no angel, either.

Angels don’t exist. So overall…’

Adam put his hand on hers; she was leaning against the worktop, clutching a sheet of paper in each hand. He stroked the taut skin.

‘In these two cases,’ she said and pulled away, ‘.. . you will never achieve anything, except upsetting people’s lives, standing on their toes with spiked shoes. As the police never give up, you will turn people’s lives upside down, in ever-increasing circles around the victims. And before you give up, before you finally admit that you will never find the murderer, you will have

destroyed, derailed so many, so many lives …’

‘OK, calm down now, Johanne. Sit down. I assume you want us

to understand what you’re trying to say, so you’ll have to take it slower on the bends.’

She forced herself to sit down and unsuccessfully tried to tuck her hair back behind her ears. It kept falling forwards and her fringe was far too long.

‘You need a drink,’ Sigmund declared. ‘That’s what you need.’

‘No thanks.’

‘Wine would be better,’ Adam said. ‘I’m definitely going to

have a glass.’

A car rattled past outside. Jack lifted his head and growled.

Adam took a bottle out of the corner cupboard, held it at arm’s length and nodded in satisfaction. He calmly put three glasses on the table, without comment, and opened the bottle. Then he

poured a glass for himself and Johanne.

‘I agree with the division you’re making,’ he said, and nodded.

‘The Fiona Helle case is a more … normal case, you might say.

Than the other two.’

‘Normal and normal,’ Sigmund said, and filled his own glass to the brim. ‘There’s nothing very normal about cutting tongues out of people’s mouths.’

Adam ignored him, took a sip, put down his glass and crossed his arms.

‘I just don’t understand the connection you’re making …’

He gave her a friendly smile, as if he was frightened he might annoy her. It annoyed her.

‘Listen,’ she said, in a voice that was higher than normal, with a mixture of fear, enthusiasm and anger. ‘The first case triggered the other two. That’s the only way it works.’

‘Triggered,’ Adam repeated the word.

‘Triggered?’

Sigmund was more alert now and pushed his glass away a

touch.